Follow The Light

I still remember that dreaded night… that stuttering hum rumbling beneath my feet, the waves impossibly still as if the ocean herself were afraid to disturb that monstrosity. I remember the whisper of stars whose light paled in the face of a thousand glowing eyes, and the moon fleeing in fear of the small sun rising before me. Shrieking metal, engine groaning and wheezing its final breath of smoke, an ungodly howl chasing wind that stung as it whipped against my cheeks.

The days that followed were a haze. I woke on the beach at the north side of the glade, ship run aground and torn to shreds, with a circle of curious farmers surrounding me. Somehow I wound up at the tavern nursing whiskey and a headache, tuning out the endless drone of sailors and fishmongers spinning tall tales of how I managed to destroy dear Etna in the dead of night. A drunk, a fool, a failure. That’s all I ever was in their eyes, and all I would ever be. Five glasses down and I let the heat in my belly become fire on my tongue; the whole town soon heard how I’d faced a devil at sea, bathed in its breath, braved its roar, and survived. 

A poorly crafted jester hat appeared on my doorstep the next day.

Now, it fuels my ship on the maiden voyage of Etna’s Daughter many years later. A solitary voyage, with no one else to send her off. No, the townies prefer to watch from inland, safely away from the lapping waters. I can feel it in their stares, in the way they hide whispers behind poorly placed hands, in cheeks warped with mocking grins every time I pass by: they think I’m mad. This obsession, the mapping, the research, it’s not just for me, no, it’s for them too, as much as they grate on my nerves. The terrible beast will scar them as it had me, haunt their dreams and nightmares, stalk the shadows in their homes, drive them mad –

But not me. I am not mad, I’m doing this for them.

One last check before departing, I decide, and carry out swiftly. Food stores filled to the brim with dried fruits, meats and hardtack; fishing gear, lures and bait secure in a number of tackle boxes; spare clothes and blankets stacked to the ceiling in the narrow bedroom below deck; a healthy stock of weapons hidden beneath the floorboards, or otherwise mounted on the walls. I intend to be far, far away and away for a while at that, long enough to find the beast and in an ideal world, long enough to kill it. I will not return without vindication.

The engine purrs to life as we slowly drift out of the harbor. I find myself at the stern staring wistfully at the town receding, shrouded in morning mist, with only a few dim lights proving it’s still there. The lighthouse becomes a mere candle on the horizon, and I wish on her light that I succeed in my quest before the glow is snuffed out. I drift, beyond the usual fishing spots, beyond other vessels treading waters deemed safer than where my travels will take me, to the wall of fog I once navigated in my youth. The bows and overturned hulls of other vessels litter a city of sea stacks, and I wonder with some sorrow whether they were undone by the creature, too. 

I cannot dwell on the thought of lost sailors, stranded or otherwise devoured, waterlogged and fighting for precious breath. I move past the veritable graveyard in silence, my only offer being the promise to avenge them. It is in my lack of levity that I hear whispers on the winds of what I can only guess to be souls long passed, whispers of approval and conviction. Blessings of safe travels and good fortune.

Even as the fog thins there’s nothing to be seen for miles in any direction, only a blue-gray sky held aloft by glittering waves. Hours pass, marked by lone clouds wandering overhead. I continue onward until the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and my lungs seize from the unbearable feeling of eyes staring through me. This is where I weigh anchor and wait with bated breath for the beast to rear its head.

I cast a line into trembling waters and wait.

Pass the hours with a weathered old book and wait.

Survey the seas through my bronze lined spyglass and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I watch the sun arc overhead to make its bed in western waters. When the indigo shades of dusk creep in and stars mark the night, I heave a great sigh. No signs today, I suppose, and have a light meal on the deck. Late in the evening I am rocked to sleep by soothing waves, and the occasional hum of wind through the cabin windows.

Another day passes in the same way. Then another, and another still. The nights grow colder, darker, as I am plagued by visions of the attack that started it all. The full moon is all too reminiscent of a clouded eye bearing down on me. I hear the hull creak and suddenly I’m brought back to the sound of teeth baring down on steel as if it were nothing more than a crust of bread. Bobbing shapes in the distance and a song on the breeze bring to mind images of sirens and merfolk beckoning me to join them in the darkest depths. And if it’s not the half-men taunting me it’s a terrible serpent coiled around me, waiting to swallow me whole. I find myself waiting each night for death to sweep me away. 

It’s maddening, the waiting. Endless waiting. Pacing the deck, casting the lines, reading the same chapter and waiting. No sign of the creature I seek besides a feeling; dread that grips my bones like a vice; fear whose claws have hooked themselves into my ribcage. 

In the morning I am waiting, as I always do, for a tug at the fishing line. Another trout, perhaps, or a char. I daydream of freshly grilled fish instead of the dried jerky I stocked, of hearty stews served on chilly nights at the tavern. I daydream of cheeks warmed by mirth and mead, throats raw with shouting and laughter and good natured arguments. I daydream of times before I was ostracized by the townies. Cobblestone paths and cabins built of logs and stone; fields of braying sheep and cows that made traffic on every road imaginable; wooden carts and rickshaws improvised into a bustling saturday market; contests with no reward other than bragging rights for who could haul in the largest fish. It was quaint, and cozy, and home.

And gods above I miss it.

The little bell at the end of my rod rings once, twice, before droning into an endless song as the line unfurls. I snap out of my seat to grab the pole, bracing it against my hip as I heave, reel, heave, reel, until a sizable shadow nears the surface. Not the beast I seek, but a worthy catch all the same. It just breaches the water when I see something odd: a blue, glowing patch on its belly. A frigid chill runs up my spine. In my hesitation I lose it, and the fish swims far into the deep before I get a chance to recover. I have no choice but to cut the line before I lose the whole spool.

I don’t cast my line again. Instead, I curl up in bed and sleep. It’s the best I can do to try and melt the ice that’s settled in my veins.

The sun is setting when I wake again. I shamble onto the deck, dry mouthed and disoriented, to see ribbons of clouds drifting overhead. Cotton dyed richly by oranges and pinks and violets – a bouquet scattered on the winds. A soft rumble rocks the boat, a high pitched squeal sounds around me and all at once the waters surge upward. A whale three times the size of Etna’s Daughter breaches a few yards away, and nearly sends me tumbling overboard as the following wave crashes into my ship. Clinging to the rails I watch as yet another skims the surface beside me, showering me in a light mist as it blows water into the air. There’s a third, a fourth, a fifth, shadows swimming beneath the surface and sending rippling waves all around me. In a flurry of teal and silver a number of fish swirl around the boat, having been disturbed by all the activity. I am struck by the beauty and improbability of such a sight. To be in the midst of the ocean coming to life as creatures large and small move together feels like a privilege few could ever enjoy.

I laugh. It is the laugh of a madman, deep and visceral and wheezing. It is a laugh that, at the tail end, melts into a sob. Maybe I was a fool after all. Maybe after weeks at sea with little experience to speak of, in the throes of a moonless night, my younger self mistook something as gentle as whale’s harmonizing, as banal as a school of blue bellied fish, as something malicious. Maybe the monsters existed only in my mind, woven from shadows and solitude. Maybe this venture was always going to be fruitless.

What am I doing out here, I wonder, where no one asked me to be? What is the point? Even if there is some fabled sea monster out here, what chance would I, a lone man with a half decent fishing boat, stand against a behemoth? How would I even prove I slayed it? This journey is for no one but myself, a stopgap to stave off acknowledging my lapse in sanity. I forgo the other stages of grief to skip straight to acceptance. It is the one good thing I can do to salvage this voyage. 

I watch the whales disappear, the last thrum of their song fading from my ears, and decide that I have seen enough for a lifetime. The anchor is raised, the weight of years of self-imposed turmoil taking its place at the bottom of the sea. I have no need for it, after all. 

Sailing through the night, stopping only at the wall of fog to sleep the darkness away, I make my way home. The whispers I hear as I pass through the cemetery of ships are nothing more than tricks of the ocean air. ‘Turn back,’ they say. ‘You were right,’ they moan. Despite every temptation to listen I write them off as nothing more than that: temptations. Demons on my shoulder leading me astray. The angels are silent today, I surmise; I shall make my own decisions in their stead.

The sun slumbers away when I find myself in familiar waters once more, the lighthouse glow rising over the ocean as I’ve seen time and time again, our own personal northstar pointing home. I note that, much in the way I left it, another swell of fog has shrouded the town. The few pale lights that break through fill me with peace, knowing that I will be among my people soon. That I will dine on my favorite stew, share a pint with friends and rivals alike, maybe indulge in a fresh loaf of bread for the morning. I will take their jovial ribbing in stride and accept the fact that no beasts have claimed me today. Home will feel like home and not a haunted crypt. I will not be an outcast. A madman. Alone.

It’s only when I turn my eyes downward that my peace shatters. The waters are stagnant. There are no waves to speak of, with even the ripples of my boat fading to nothing. Stars shrink to mere dust in the face of the steadily approaching lighthouse, whose rotating light has gone deathly still. It points nowhere — no, it points to me — as it doubles in size. By all reasoning I should see the shoreline, the town, the harbor, but instead the fog thickens in the shape of a half-dome. One by one more lights flicker to life. Too many, too large, too cold; there is no warmth at the sight of them.

The floor itself shivers. Heat bleeds out of me as a familiar blue tint appears in the corner of my eye. Then another. And another. Blue orbs below the water’s surface, surrounding me, watching, waiting…

I cast my eyes to the fog rising up, up, the lighthouse towering far higher than it should. It bends and bows, bobs in the sky above like an antennae. It fixes on me, and as its inhuman light focuses on me a gaping maw tears open. I hear a rush of water filling the cavernous void, the crunch of metal buckling around me, along with an unholy groan that shakes my very soul.

Then I hear nothing at all.