𝐹𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒

Harrowing nights low on food left my men at the end of their rope. Earnest in all my intentions, but I know rationing the food is what made my men succumb to the depths. Leviathan hold strong, I prayed, hold until I can get them back home, hold until these torrential rains stop, hold until I can buy them another pint. Prayers mean nothing to the sea. 

Minutes felt like hours and my eyes burned from the salty waters. Everything still felt like it would be fine, it wasn’t our first storm and I’d like to hope that some men slept through it. 

Panic didn’t set in until I saw the cliff-side. Locked on her trajectory, my champion, Leviathan, was doomed to be dashed upon those stones. Even though I shouted at the top of my lungs, I can’t say that everyone heard my warning. “Abandon ship! Forlat Skuta! Forlat!’ Seconds later the impact threw me forward and more pungent brine filled my mouth. Even after this, ever present was my foolishness.

The shoals embraced me like the loving arms of a companion I left at home. Heed my warning when I say you will never be prepared for the sinking of a ship. Even if you hold your breath, it’ll flee from your lungs after hitting the frigid and bitter water; you’ll be nothing more than a hapless babe floating in the current. 

Luckily God must have taken pity on me, for I don’t remember much of my time under the water, nor do I remember washing up ashore; the thunderous storm was a distant rumbling in my ears now as I stared up at a flat gray sky. It wasn’t much to look at, the island itself, I couldn’t see it during the storm but atop the cliff-side that shattered my vessel, there was a lighthouse. Grimacing from the pain of my aching body and burning lungs, I began my haphazard stumble up to the lighthouse. Hefting my weight across the island proved to be tedious with my injured leg. The door was ajar when I reached the top, and when I called nobody answered.

How such a building had been left so unkempt made the pit of my stomach boil, the fate of the Leviathan and my men could have been kinder had there been someone here. Our vessel could not have been the first to wander precariously close to the island, and I wonder how many other men were left in my position due to this discarded responsibility. Under the furniture, or behind picture frames were the only places not caked in thick layers of dust, and emerald rust flowered over anything metal. 

Something wasn’t right. 

Even if the lighthouse was decommissioned, they wouldn’t leave personal effects scattered around, and there wouldn’t still be cans of food in the pantry.

Knots formed in my stomach when I heard a moan. Not caring who lay in the room, just wanting there to be someone else, I hobbled as fast as my broken leg would allow. Overjoyed as I was at first to see Tomas, the youngest member of my crew, he was splayed over a moldy couch and looked unwell. Weak and with labored breathing, I knew the boy wouldn’t have lasted long here. Stairs presented another challenge for me and I hauled myself up to the next floor, hoping for a better bearing of the situation at hand.

My nose was assaulted with a putrid and sour scent, there lay on the second floor a man who I assumed to be the former keeper, swathed in the light of the window; he lay entirely still. Yanking myself back down the stairs in horror, I dared not tell Tomas what I saw; I stayed by his side, and when he awoke he yammered all night, but didn’t make it to the morn.

Suitable grave-sites were in short supply on the island, and I did my best with what I could to give Tomas a dignified resting place. I didn’t venture upstairs again until I could no longer bear to see the keeper's still visage through the floorboards. I didn’t know the man, but I had hoped his family could forgive me for the way I cast away his remains. Never once did I consider myself blessed to be alive, and especially not now that I was left alone with few supplies.

A long time ago, when I was a little boy, my Mormor told me a tale of a fisherman who overestimated his craft and lost most of his family to the sea. Never did I think myself to be like foolish Elias, chased by the Draug. Draugs and stories of the undead men scared me under the covers as a child, but sitting alone all day in a damp and rusty lighthouse had brought the nightmares back to me. 

Where there was a slight creak, or the knocking of the door, I could picture him, the old keeper banging on it with what was left of his hands, but he was the least of my concerns. Ocean water. Nasty stuff, but it was my only other option when there was no rain water. Tomas disappeared, I would often find myself visiting his grave and talking to him, but one evening I found that the soil was perturbed and Tomas, gone.

Later that night I awoke, and I could hear his haggard breathing over me, I dare not look upon his face, lest I provoke. Echoes came from the main tower stairway up to the light, perhaps it was the keeper not knowing his service was done long ago; when mist blanketed the island I could see faces in the fog, and I could hear my men’s gargled calls for me. Then leaving the lighthouse became blasphemy, and the only instigator for my wretched husk’s movement was the rain.

Mustering any kind of strength now felt absurd, as I found myself looking more and more like the keeper as the days grew on. Existence was miserable in this new home of mine, and I found myself spending a good amount of time questioning what really killed the old keeper.

Loathe is a kind word compared to how I felt about this place. Escaping had occurred to me, but there were too many dangers lying out on the sea; I could have tried lighting the lamp at the top but there was no whale oil to be found and I knew the Draug was guarding the tower. As I went to sleep I could hear them all laughing at me, the captain who killed his men, the captain who crashed his ship, the captain who would not let Tomas suffer another day on this cursed island. 

“Vennligst,” I begged the island, please, please let me leave. 

Every night it does not answer me, and as the days stretch with not a single ship sighting, I know I do not wait for rescue, I wait for my judgment.

“Here my barnebarn,” my Mormor would say, comforting me in her lap. “Every tale has beginning and a choice. Right or wrong. Even though you are a very smart boy, remember to always look back at the beginning, and try your best to make the right choice.”