The wharfs are brimming with the multitudes of men from all manner of ancestries. You march down the much-trafficked footpaths with a single-minded purpose, to ignore each and every one of those louts. A mask of cold indifference rests plastered upon your face. The trade ships, though delayed on their return voyages, have finally made landfall. But not yours, the Amber Star did not. To befoul your mood further, some of the more reputable captains testify that it had not even made berth upon the sister shore.
A loss to be sure, your profits for the season were dependent on the captain and crew of that damned ship. So yet while your face appears calm, beneath you are storming with unbidden rage. A furious typhoon only moderately contained within the confines of your chest. You briskly stomp along the cobbles towards your immediate destination, Tom’s Brackish Tavern.
While it may be one of many hubs along the pier, the obscured location and unconventional exterior limits its visibility to the public at large. You have wagered that you’ll find yourself disregarded and left to wallow in ale in peace. Only the briefest moments of observation are needed to dispel that prediction. The tavern is at peak capacity, saturated with the many seamen quite determined to make the most of their pay and shore leave.
Twinges of nausea meet you as the odorous stenches of unwashed bodies sting your nose and eye. Each and every one, they all are making merry. Survival of their voyages is and always has been cause for celebration, but you are certainly not in a celebratory mood. Every chair is filled with lively folk at various points of intoxication, save for one seat.
It lies at the farthest end of the bar, past the field of fetid limbs and disgusting bodies. You consider abandoning your quest there and then but such an act will only sour your mood further. You make the conscious decision to ford the throng of inebriated men, resolved to satisfy your own want of drink tonight.
You dip and dodge between the drunkards and blackards that lie between you and your goal. Blustering sailors surround you in presence and spirit. Their wild and untamed limbs encapsulate and seem close to ensnaring you, yet with proper commitment you make your way forward towards your destination. Very little joy is found as you seat yourself upon the remaining stool. Wordlessly, you offer a finger towards the barkeep, a middling man who you do not recognize from your previous outings at this very establishment. You pay it very little heed though as with short delay a flagon of strong, bitter ale is plopped before you. It is a sloshing, dark liquid. It crests and breaks upon the rough hewn container that has surely been used by many-a-land-fallen mariners over its existence. You take a moment to ponder the depth of that drink, the bottom of which you cannot espy. You snort and make a grim smirk. A drink to match your mood.
A long drag passes down your gullet, burning your throat and stinging the back of your nose. It tastes full-bodied, as a drink worth its salt should taste. The only companion you desire upon this morose evening. Alas, it is not meant to be.
“Ahoy there, friend.” A voice to your right breaks into your solitude. You keep your eyes low to your glass and opt to pay it no heed. Your peripheral vision informs you that the voice belongs to a Vanara, a monkey Anthro common and seemingly native to any port from here to the edges of the world. The monkey man stinks beyond the Nine Hells of drink far stronger than in your own mug, and the rosy glow upon his cheeks where his fur thins belies his relationship with firewater. From the side of your eyes you can make out his disheveled jerkin in need of mending beyond what you were likely to find in this port town. And that all forewarns you of what was to come next.
“You look like a mighty compassionate soul.” He hiccups, words slurring together in an almost incomprehensible string of sound. “What say you buy an honest seaman a drink?” His hand clasps upon your shoulder, you simply shrug and roll it off. “Aaaahhh, come off it now… I be only asking for a pittance. A trifle.” He hiccups again. “What says you?”
You say nothing.
“Hmmph.” He tut-tuts at you. “If I was you, I’d practice a bit more charity. Gives the old angels a point in your favor come Judgement Day.”
The sounds of merriment and boisterous, raucous grumbles drone from the crowd. You swish, swig, and sip your ale, fully content to avoid interaction or even acknowledge his presence. You are convinced that soon he will move on to the next in line, vie for pity from them. It surely will not be you that enables his vice.
“Ahhh, I see that you be one of those with little consolation for those beneath your station. Very well, then I propose a trade. Most assuredly a savvy trader such as yourself would have the wits to consider an accord ere banishing me from your presence.” You raise an eyebrow and glance surreptitiously his way. The Vanara has astutely surmised your occupation as a trader. A feat moderately above the median faculties of those within the tavern at present. It has gained your notice, but not your agreement. The Vanara presses his negotiation on.
“Aye! You seek your fortune among the waves, I can tell. And I know that one such as you would be enraptured by my tale. A trade, I offer! You supply the drink, I supply the entertainment. What says you?”
You reveal nothing of your internal thoughts as you contemplate. You want nothing to do with this pitiful man. There are no cares to be had for his tale and every moment you continue to ignore him is a moment closer to your solitude among the sailors. Any such tale would be sure to sour the drink in your mug more. The Vanara, perhaps seeing your displeasure, tries a different tactic.
“You clearly are a most hardened barterer. Not one to casually accept any such agreement. I must wonder, have you always been so scrutinous or have your dealings fallen through and cut your temper short?”
The challenge does not go unnoticed as you slam the wooden mug to the countertop. The liquid inside jostles within its confines at the act. You can feel your brow scrunch into a glower as you smolder with irritation. Your body turns flush as red hot anger travels throughout your limbs. The Vanara smirks, the shrewd eyes of his ancestry bear a levity that sets your teeth on edge. With a quick bit of self-awareness you scoff and jerk your head away from his accusatory and infuriating grin. You try to set the mask upon your face, but it is of no use you know. He has found his leverage.
“It seems we both are without something then, my friend.” His words, while slurred and slow, carry weight as they descend down your ears. “What other individual that calls this port home tonight could understand as we do? What other scallywag holds misery and misfortune in their chest? I hear none in the voices of our fellow men, do you?”
You try not to take notice of the song and merriment. You try to tune out his words. You try to stare into your drink and let the inescapable world fade away. Its cold claws have found purchase within you however, his assessment of your mein is once again accurate. You are miserable.
“I offer you this, my friend. Is it not more the best cure for misery than to wallow in the misery of others? To say nothing of aiding another soul, but there is a certain, shall we say, calling in bearing witness to the sorrow and scandal of those to turn our minds away from our own wretched lots. For my tale, she is rife with misfortune. I’ll say no more without your assent to our deal than this. I’ll even present an advance on my end. Be you a captive audience to my words, and see it fit to invest further, I’ll do so with haste. Else, I’ll leave you be and take my gloom elsewhere.
You had not considered such a twist to your evening meditation, and curiosity has taken hold of you despite your guarded position. As you size him up once more, you wonder what misery has befallen him. He never asked you for your own in return. He simply asked for ale. A tale for ale. The terms, as the Vanara had presented them, were almost entirely weighted in your favor. Immediate return with zero prior investment? Irrevocable option to simply leave should the tale begin to bore? The conscious pull towards grim fantasy at what he has to offer you this somber eve?
You nod, just once, signaling the barest amount of your curiosity.
“Ahhhh…” His decaying teeth snarl into the most rancid grin. “The eyes have it then.” You take a draught of your drink. The burn now just simmers upon your tongue.
“My tale, she begins on a night not long ago. Amid the opposite season we find ourselves today.”
“The winds were most disadvantageous, and the night black save for the scattering of stars that grant you bare more than the faintest sparks of light with which to mark our course. Yet, we were lost. Poor planning and forethought digested into a foul arrangement of despair and danger.”
“Dangerous trade agreements and the capitalist cravens that pen them had cursed our benefactor. Our course had been sabotaged for sake of greed. And we found misfortune beyond reckoning upon us. Our supplies ill-preserved and stores brim to burst with trinkets and baubles that could not satisfy the crews’ stomachs. Days in the drink we wandered. No favorable breath of wind. No heading. No land crested up over the horizon. Dead in the water, were we. Dead in the water, we were soon to be.”
“I ask you, trader? Do you know what befalls a crew caught out upon high seas with nary a lick of luck? Do you know the weight of the crown the captain holds upon his brow? Do you know the choices he must stomach as he watches his crew descend into madness? Or as he falls along with them? Do you know what lies at the brink of despair? I assure you, my friend, you won’t find it at the bottom of that drink in your hand.”
You consider the question, and you come to your own conclusion. But you continue to hold your tongue, letting the narrative build and tension grow.
“I tell you, my friend, I tell you what lies at the end of sanity upon the seas. Mutiny.” He pauses, knocking three times upon the bartop. The sharp raps discernable in the ripples atop your beverage. You are sure you are imagining it, but the sounds of the bar seem to fade away.
“The crew, scared witless, descended on the captain. Insane to the point of illogical, we cast blame on our leader for our lots in life. Curs!”
“We bound him. Chained him. Held a kangaroo court. Played judge, jury, and soon to be executioner. We sentenced him, guilty on all accounts. Nearly unanimous were we, save one vote. The plaintiff’s.” The Vanara chuckles at his own joke. Grim grunts of a rather morbid nature.
“If the damned desire damnation, all is right in the world. If damnation comes for the damned, however.” He pauses. “Well, I pray you remain far from your loved ones.”
He turns towards you, meeting your eyes. You did not realize you turned towards him. The tale has captured more of your interest than you intended. You brush off the chill that has settled in your chest with a final chug of your ale.
“It seems that your drink has run dry. Mayhaps, you desire for another round?” He grins that plaque-ridden smile. “Mayhaps, you’d like to add one more for your new friend?” His tone is sickly sweet and ridden with smug victory. You are irked however. The mask you wear remains firmly recast upon your face. Keeping your emotions under wraps is a skill you have developed over years brokering business deals and dealing with types even more unsavory than the Vanara panhandling for booze next to you.
You contemplate, weigh the pros and cons of your side of the bargain. The story has merit, and stopping just at the cusp of conflict infuriates you. You’re left wondering what will happen next. Your thumb fiddles around your index finger as you contemplate the decision to be made. The dotted line, the moment investiture is to be pooled and bequeathed upon the venture. You’ve learned to hold at this moment and let your instincts guide you. Whether they call you fore or aft is of no concern, only following them.
The Vanara is staring with the vested interest of a drunk for more drink; however, he retains his composure rather than pester more. A tactic you admire, any further discourse would erode his position considerably.
You ask yourself what could have happened. Any number of things exist in the realm of possibility, but as your mind wanders it becomes tangled in fits of fancy. Far more unfavorable consequences and complications come to mind. The whole prospect of the conflict itches you, and leaves you wanting for more, for resolution. You hold up two fingers to the bartender.
Two more mugs are deposited before you and your neighbor. At least the Vanara had the courtesy to placate himself until after the first drops pass by your lips.
“Well, there it is, mate! A bargain struck, and good fortunes rendered. Ah, permit me a moment to wet my whistle and I shall continue.” The swig lasts longer than a sole moment, you would guess that half the drink was downed in seconds. He burps, foul air passes towards you that is waved away with a grimace. You consider whether this was the right deal to make, but steel your complaints for until the story begins again. It will surely be worth it to learn what occurs next.
“Hehehehehe!!” The Vanara giggles and his rosy complexion ripens even redder and ruddier. “You are quite the saint masquerading as a close-fisted, coffer-loving merchant. Or, would you merely be bewitched by my account? The devil is in the details, as they say. I’ll leave your reasons to you.”
He breathes in and you watch that jerkin which seemed one stiff wind from being torn apart expand with his lungs.
“Where was I? Ahhhh. Mutiny. The crew, burdened with woes and misfortune, took it upon themselves to condemn the low captain whose crime was one of being a victim to the same curse upon the ship and her crew. Be it no mind of what good it would do to aleve the ship’s present condition.”
“But then, my friend, when have drowning rats ever produced sound rational for their panicked strokes?”
The question hangs, rhetorical as it be. You simply let it go. What good would answering it do? Simply delay the continuation.
“Alas, one of the crew spoke to that effect. Said that any such malicious acts shall surely damn us more, and by leagues worse than what can be magicked by mortal hands. We were within the Calm, you see.”
The name causes you to shudder involuntarily, but you simply reason that it was because of a draft that pierced and flowed through your clothes. But you know the name. The Calm.
“Aye. You keep your wits close, yet your mask is cracking, friend. You’ve heard of that stretch of sea. You know of the tales as do I, as do any sailer within these sleazy walls, as anyone so enamored with the sea knows. The Calm, a place owned by the forces of nature more mysterious than any scholar could understand. A place where you can only pray the expected finds you and not more incomprehensible occurrences. For that is no such sea you wish to be caught unprepared in. That sea is where ships and crew go to die.”
You snort, indignant that the tale has devolved to talks of superstition and nonsense. You start regretting paying his fee. Humorously, the monkey laughs aloud. Boisterous laughs, oddly out of place despite the general merriment and aire of the tavern which seems to have turned quieter still.
“You are a most amusing audience, my friend. You have no qualms about making your displeasure known. Not one for simply accepting the raving lunacies of seamen that see ghosts in the mist, or monsters in the waves, or hear shrieks upon the wind. But whether you dismiss my tale as mere flights of dehydrated and dying men all you need to understand is this. We believe in such tales.”
He said that last line with a conviction you hadn’t heard yet from him. You may not believe in the tales of the Calm, but you believe him. Drunk as he may be, you believe him. He only looks to his drink. Eyes glazed over with a morose mood. He does begin again, and you turn back to thumb your own cup.
“The lone crewmate suggested that we cast the captain to the sea floor. To the Lady of the Deep that rests below in cracks and canyons far beneath the surface and holds dominion over that swath of sea. A live sacrifice in return for safe passage through the Calm and back to port. In the crew’s sea madness such a plan provided them something that they had not at present. Hope. A cruel, disgusting hope born on the backs of sedition and mutiny and death. All upon the lone captain, and make no mistake, they knew what was being suggested. When bellies run empty, and throats be parched, moral is thinner than my finest furs, you seek anything! Any vein with which to grasp upon to hoist ourselves to safety. To land. To life! Cause that’s what they had. What we had. Life.”
He pauses.
“Life to discard to save our own. We agreed to the plan.”
He downs the remnants of the drink. Wiping the dredges of spittle from his maw. You don’t feel pity for the Vanara, as far as you’re concerned this is just showmanship. You were promised a tale. And you are being presented with one. Yet… You feel it. The draw again. The need to know what happened next for that cannot be the end. Something more lies just beyond the scene where he has left it. But you can see them, the spirals of thought swirling in violent maelstroms under his skin.
You weigh your options. Your own curiosity and intrigue remains just as prevalent within your mind, questions and unresolved tension sits heavy upon your shoulders. The tale is not yet over, yet his ale is all gone. You notice your cup still nearly brimming with drink. It has laid nearly forgotten in your hands which grip tightly to the stiff wood.
You have no duty to do so, no part of your bargain requires such a sacrifice, and all of your instincts scream against you. You place your mug before him. Once again his plot of countertop is wetted. The drink spills over the lip. It stains the course surface with its puddle. The scent of alcohol seems to again spark life in your companion. Eyes coming back to awareness before your own.
He turns and smiles and again black teeth stare back at you.
“Hooked you like the best catch of the season, eh?” The lightness and levity returns to his voice. You feel nothing more than the slightest twinge in compassion. Your additional investment still requires a payoff, and you are quick to will him back on to his tale.
“No….” He shakes his head at you. “You aren’t hooked. You’re manic, quite starved for something more. Something not found in the bottom of your drink.” He swigs down his offered ale. His sleeve wipes alongside his lips to dry them. The act left the sole stain on his shirt. His somber expression returns as he again recalls his tale.
“We called upon our… hero to do the honors. To present our case and cause to our last remaining hope. About us men was no one of sound mind nor countenance to make such an offering, and though we had unanimous agreement, no one could stomach orating such treasonous dealings. I, for one, could only stand and watch our captain. My captain. Through it all he simply stood stoic. A trait we had all looked upon before with pride and strength had soured like milk into silent accusations against us. My guilt and shame tied the famished knots in my gut tighter. I closed my eyes to banish the sight of my captain from my eyes, yet there was nothing to be done for it. We had decided our new course, we had naught left but to walk it.”
“The hero went to the edge of the deck. It was beyond dusk on a moonless night. Only lantern light would streak across our forms for our crime. Perhaps it was for the best, we weren’t men that night. Truly more akin to beasts we were, masking our wretched forms in hides and skin and frayed canvas shirts. Should it have been daylight, certainly our spirits would not be dashed so low. We certainly would not have tread upon where our normal gods would not go. Perhaps. But it does not matter now, no?”
“Our captain merely stood there as our hero stood aside him, shouting forth across that eerily calm sea. He shouted out a prayer to that which makes her home below our keel. He praised her form, her power, her presence which lies forgotten by most, but not us. He asked for her aid, her mercy upon our doomed voyage, upon our doomed souls. And in return he offered our captain. Noble, honorable, stalwart, steadfast. A true sailor. A fine sacrifice which will no doubt sate our request and ensure our passage through her domain. Back to safety and fairer weather.”
The monkey takes a drag from his second mug. You notice the fervor in imbibing has left him, his actions taking on a more tempered mein.
“His speech was eloquent and practiced. It was like the honeyed words I hear from those of your calling when dealing with our captain and cargomaster. Had I been in position to accept, I would not have hesitated. The Lady of the Deep, however, she was not so persuaded by the pleas. And thus he stood nearest the edge of the deck with a crew of hopeless, half starved heathens who were already treading upon powers best left alone as our only opportunity for escape from our predicament. I don’t know how long we sat awaiting a response. The crew, already predisposed to mutiny, cantankerous and desperate, again turned traitor against the hero. Wishing foul curses and ill will the likes I hadn’t heard from any such mouths. To be provided a sip of water in the desert only for it to sear our insides. A cruel fate upon our already cruel fate.”
“But in the midst of such vitriol and venomous verbal stabbings came a noise we hadn’t expected. A laugh. It was like a blade cast from ice and honed to an edge sharp enough to slay the Jabberwocky. It froze the crew and we cast our eyes to and fro in a desperate attempt to silence the noise lest it anger and frenzy us further. And find the source we did, though we needn’t search so desperately. It was an individual who was quite known to us. The captain, bound in chain and lock, took to cackling at us like a gnoll whose taken much more flayleaf than prudent. Our anger vanished, and our fear returned.”
“The captain never before laughed. The captain never broke composure. The captain never bent to the wild wills of the wind and waves. Yet he laughed, moments away from his death, and he laughed. But we could tell. It wasn’t his fate that he laughed at. Oh no. We were the source of his good spirits. We could have moved to gag him, bind him further to avoid such embarrassment. Yet we couldn’t. We sat stark still. As still as the sea itself. As still as the wind. As still as frightened sailors could be.”
“‘You fools’, he called us, ‘you godforsaken fools. You squabble like children. You bark and yap like curs. You hiss and spit and cuss as if such acts will save you. And hear me, you thrice damned ingrates, your offer of my life for the sake of safety was the ultimate insult. Whether you overestimate my worth or under estimate the worth of safety is of no consequence. You are all fools and deserve the fates that befall you.’”
Your companion knocked upon the bartop three times. You find yourself mirroring the act in kind. The mood of the room continues to avoid the two of you. The morose story continuing to twist and turn, it pulls your interest along in ways you can’t fully comprehend. You sit upon the edge of your stool, intently eying the Vanara as he practically seethes. His breaths came quick and shallow, his knuckles pale as he clenched his cup. He turns and sees you, all traces of inebriation have vanished from his eyes. Hard and discerning. Stoic and unyielding.
“He turned towards the sea. Just staring across that inky black darkness. His back towards us. I had always been proud to serve that back. I had seen it stand before hurricanes and typhoons. I had seen it tackle waves twice the size of our mast. I had seen it constantly look out upon the turbulent sea. It had never looked as it did now. That back had been something to line up behind before. At that moment, that back had abandoned us. Forsaken us. Much like the waves and wind. It left us. He left us.”
“‘Lady of the Deep. These infernal, ungrateful, insulting bastards deserve none but your wrath and condemnation. There exists not one among them worthy of the salt of your sea. They don’t deserve salvation. They deserve the same as they have cast upon me. To be sacrifices made to you, O Wondrous One. Take them, my Lady. Take the ship. Take the cargo. Take their souls to the briney deep. Take every last life tied to this damnable ship. Take them all to your embrace beneath us and let them lie there with you for eternity. Take them and cast them below to where the light doesn’t reach and where the heat of the sun cannot penetrate. Take them from my sight and leave them to their doom of which there is no reprieve.’”
His eyes turn and look forward, past the walls of the tavern. Past the thick air of the port. Past the weeks and months since this story took place. He was not here anymore. He was not before you. But he brings you with him. Into that past, you are almost convinced you were hearing the words from that captain yourself. But that cannot be. This was an act! A show! But as you sit, you find yourself less certain in the ways of the world. Such was the manner of his skills. You decided that you would pay for as much ale as you need to reach the culmination of this story.
“We sat there and heard his curse upon us. We did not stir. Such words from our captain were beyond our conception, he had never cursed so. He glowered. He sneered. He scowled. But never cursed. And it was here that I understood his plan. And the folly of our own. We had offered one life in return for some score of ours. Our captain offered ours for his. And it was clear that was a far, far more favorable offer than ours.”
You gulp, the sounds and smells had long since faded from the world. The light from the lanterns and chandeliers seem to reach only half as far as you remember. You could only focus on the Vanara now. He sits, still as the sea must have been that night. Your drinks sit forgotten. He must have felt the eyes upon him. His sole audience rapt in attention. He turns his head slowly, taking much too long to be reasonable. You wanted to yell, shout, scream. Beg him back to his story. His face now looked pale and gaunt, cheeks sunken in, eyes dark and sunken into his face. You can only wonder what he had seen out there on the Calm, along that sea of mysteries where only the most peculiar things happen. You shake your head. You remember. You don’t believe in the tales. But maybe, only in the slightest of possibilities, you believe in this one.
“What do you know of the Lady of the Deep, trader? Do you know of her form? Do you know of her strength? I had always thought it to be a metaphor. A… an exaggeration. A simile to explain the uncertainty of what lies below the sea. I heard the tales. The rumors. The histories of those that journeyed across the Calm before. I believed them. I had seen more than my share of the inexplicable or downright indescribable happenings out there on the open water. I believed them. But never before had I expected such a story to get… not real. Personal! Aye, that be the word. I never expected a story to get so personal. So close to my skin.”
“The sea, following the last of the captain’s bartering, shook. A lone ripple coursed out from our ship. The only wave we had seen in days. But it wasn’t natural. It gripped us, gripped me, with fear. It wasn’t natural, nothing about that sea was natural, but this was even further into the realm of improbability. The sky which had been dark that night only darkened more. The stars, faint as their lights were, only winked out more. I swear they were extinguished, like lanterns to save wax. They winked out.”
“I held hope that there would be one, any one that would resist the growing dark. Any chance of light bearing mercy upon our wretched forms and souls. Each prick of light that was stolen from my eyes was another reminder that we… we were not leaving that sea alive. And like drowning rats, we could only await our demise. We had been traded. Like livestock, like cattle, like animals. Like culls, good for nothing save the flesh on our bones and perhaps our bones as well.”
“I didn’t see anything at first. I did not wish to see anything. I wanted it to end! I wanted that night to end and bear witness to dawn's glorious rays. For surely we were all part of some waking dream, a nightmare which wouldn't last but moments in the sun's brilliant halo. But that was senseless and my senses hadn’t left me as I would soon wish they had. The sea split, a large mass had breached I knew, like a whale, like many whales. But no whales were that large, that fantastical. The deck shook as clinging masses gripped our hull. All I could see of their shapes was dull and wavering. The few lanterns we had failed to penetrate that inky aura.”
“That first scream, lo, that horrid scream. I heard it to my left. Whomever it was, he was whisked into the void. Again there was silence that was heavier than before. I was shaking, eyes wired open in search of any such clue as to what was before us. Until there was a second scream. Off to the right. It was then that we began scattering in the dark, like terrified bugs. Skittering about for anything to save them! I heard prayers, shouts, begs. All manner of noise. All of which was punctured with screams of men being spirited away into the abyss. There were no attempts to save anyone but ourselves. They all sought refuge or sanctuary wherever they could. But not I, my voice vanished with the stars in the sky. And my legs remained still, anchored. Stuck.”
“The first crash was louder than that. A large… something tossed itself upon our ship. Splintering wood cracked like thunder without the lightning. The floor beneath me tilted and I was thrown, the rough hewn wood was dry. I remember that, the deck had never been dry, I scoured with my hands trying to search for any lick of moisture upon that surface. You may think me strange for seeking something in the midst of such danger. But I care not, think as you will, trader. Around me were the sounds of confusion and chaos. My crew, my friends, mates I had traveled with for many a-voyages. I heard their screams and it rattled about my skull, I heard them cut short. I heard them call out for help. But none came. And I knew that. They knew that. Still they screamed. Crashing destruction continued. I couldn’t say what luck I had to survive that first minute, but it must have been the grimmest fate.”
“The second crash was to my other side. I didn’t move from the floor. The sounds of running came from everywhere. I lacked understanding of port or starboard. Nor up and down. They stepped on me. Once, twice, thrice. I lost count of the number that tripped upon my limbs and form.”
“I curled up to take the smallest form I coud. Smaller than I even was as a babe swaddled by me Ma whose comforting presence would have counted nil in that encroaching dark. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t move. Around me was the sound of demonic punishment. The air shook with the sounds of hundreds of… things creeping upon the deck. Not man, not any creature that I’ve ever seen. And no creature I ever wanted to see. They stepped with a squishing, sloshing noise. Like they just stepped from the sea. It was only then that I noticed the screaming had stopped.”
“Damp footsteps fell around me. Within a hand’s breadth of me, but never on me. But they were heavy, and I felt the chilled sea water puddled around me as they strode about like they owned the place. I had no objection to state. And nor did any of my crewmates, should they have been present or… able to.”
“They must have stepped down into the hold, to the cargo laden with treasures that were not our own. To the fineries and filaments that the wealthy flaunt about in competition to each other. Wet steps trailed by me. I heard plunging from below, the chests must have been offloaded. With each splash I imagined it was going to be me next. That I was finally to be handled by those creatures who I could not bring myself to espy. My crew was gone, our wares were being taken, and i could only sit petrified upon the dry wood of the surface of our ship.”
“Hours must have passed if by mortal measure we estimate the rate of their work, but I know not the true length of time those beings needed. And soon there was nothing, no sound around me. No creaking sails or masts. No hails and calls from other men. Not even my own heart seemed to sound out in my chest. So gripping was the eeriness of that silence that my breathes were shallow and short. I could only wait, knowing that it would soon be my turn to be swallowed by that damnation and punished accordingly.”
He paused. Eyes still locked on yours. They did not blink. Neither did yours. The sting of dryness set in but you refused to turn away. But the storyteller did. He turned back to his drink. A ring had set into the counter around the mug. The immediate spell broke and you gained again awareness of the bar. He sighs. You feel many things in that sigh. You want to hear more. You need to.
“The Lady of the Deep…. She… grabbed me. A slimy, disgusting, mucus drenched tentacle ripped me from the deck. Everything of the world that I still knew was taken from me. I flailed as a hatchling who’s fallen from the nest. Seeking anything in the dark with which to stake my continued existence on. All I found were more writhing snakes. They lashed and ensnared about my swinging limbs as I fought their embrace. Soon I was stuck.”
“I couldn’t breathe. They may have not circled my breast, but their menace had me choked. I felt… more. More than the suckers about my wrists and ankles. More than the frigid sweat upon my brow. More than the fear that pulsed and dug and squeezed my pounding heart. I can nay describe it more aptly than I was seen. Not by any creature with a face, or eyes, or a name, or a presence of this or any ocean. But it- she saw me nonetheless.”
“The Lady… she peered through that hellish night and into me…, through me! She looked deep into the cracks and canyons of my bones. I shook under the scrutiny. No piece of me could hide. That dark did not conceal me. Not from something of the dark. Not from something that is the dark.”
“A greater crunch voiced itself from below. And somehow, some deranged part of my mind bared some lucidity for I knew what that noise was. Like a python slowly wringing the life of its prey, The Lady must have seized what was offered to her. The ship, our ship, my ship. She was torn in two. With no more than a thought, a flick, a drop of the total magnitude of the Lady’s strength, she destroyed her. The sinking plunge of water was sickening to my ears and had I the means I would have wretched. My ship, my pride and joy for ages was drowned. My home, my livelihood, it was ripped from the surface and I knew, I knew. I’d never see it again.”
“I wanted to cry. To mourn her passing. To grieve in peace and solitude, but I could not. Eyes, unseen eyes, unperceivable eyes. They had me in their clutches greater than the mass of scummy feelers about my frame. I couldn’t blink them away. They followed me behind my eyelids. I.. friend, are you well?”
The question breaks your stupor. Your own condition finally brought to awareness. Your arms are rigid, shoulders taut, splinters dig into your palms as you grip the brink of the counter. With the spell shattered by his question you compose yourself. You managed to even forget where you were. The flood of noise from celebrating sailors feels foreign to your ears. Cool air passes into your starving lungs to slacken the burning sensation you had no idea you were feeling. Disoriented, you compose yourself and feel oddly aware of eyes upon you. You slowly return to looking at him. His eyes are locked to you.
“Should I stop…?” The Vanara to your side asks. Words escape you however, your own apprehension still abating. Each breath brought in air still saturated with the stench of bodies, flickering fire light still warps the shadows about your limbs, but at least these reminders hold you firm to the present. And not where that story was taking you.
The monkey had asked you a question. You gulp, again weighing the risks. You’ve spent two drinks on this tale and it has snatched all of your attention. And that frightens you. You hadn’t imagined that this night, this rash decision, this tale would pull at your mind with such fervor. Sweat licks at your temples despite your repeated attempts to dab it away. You wonder.
Should you stop? Should you walk away? Should you leave this foul cesspool and return to, to, to anywhere but near this shrewd thespian? This wicked tempter?
He looks at you. He hadn’t even deigned to impart with his name! He stares at you. He had stopped intentionally, hadn’t he! He glares at you, leers at you, challenges you. Your temper rises and in stark defiance of your instincts you shake your head. You will hear the rest of the story. He will tell it to you.
The monkey nods once, solemnly. “Very well.” And when he continued again, his voice was no greater than a whisper. Wispy and breathy. Sodden with yet untapped emotion.
“The Lady had me. All of me. In its grasp. Suspended in the dark. I make no claim to have faced it with bravery. No, strength and will and valor had long since fled from that forsaken place and I remained all that still breathed the air laden with malice. Cause I carry no misconception, and nor should you. The Lady did not breathe. She did not stir. She was in no hurry to be done with me. No sign came to my addled mind with which to mark the time. Minutes? Hours? Days? All in that dreadful dark I could have stayed for years and never known the difference. Just that morbid sensation of being observed and the nooses of cephalopodic limbs about my joints and extremities.”
“I don’t know when I started screaming. All while being bored into by those pupil-less eyes from all directions. When had I lost my wits? When had I been pulled past the limits of my sanity, I know not. But all men have their borders which past there is no comprehension. And many days of poor temperament had pushed me near the edge prior.”
“I screamed. I screamed for ages. I screamed for sake of screaming. No one could hear me. Not like you here in this hovel. The only mortals for leagues had been taken by the surf. Nay! They had been taken by the Lady. All because our captain had offered our lives to her. I cursed him with my scream. I obliged he hear me and my screams. To know what fate he cursed me with. The life that I now lived. Existence beyond sanity.”
“My voice grew numb. Course it did, even the noise faded into meaningless droning din. That dark swallowed it all. All that was cast from me was gobbled by that infernal void. There was no echo, no response, no other besides the Lady. And she never answered, never faltered at continuing to perceive me. Never stopped scouring every inch of me for what I couldn’t know. She never offered any explanation. I only wonder now upon dry land if I had asked how she would have answered. Certainly we could have communicated in some way….”
You watch as he trails off, lucidity and presence drains from his eyes. The questions are upon your mind as well, but you are certain there is no answer to satisfy them. It leaves you to sit with your disease.
“It doesn’t matter, I suppose. In the way nothing mattered to me in that moment. Eventually, my circumstances did change. Liquid ice bit my toe, shocking my senses which had left me to my lot. I dove into feeling, experiencing the chill. For the novelty I am sure was the sole reason that my mind remains now so removed from that sea. My thrashing resumed. And I was shocked to learn that the restrictions upon my body were looser. I wouldn’t dare to claim I understand the Lady’s whims, such acts and creatures are beyond our capacity. And there would be no end of questions were she inclined to divulge any such knowledge.”
“But the frozen sea swallowed me, grabbing a different sense. My limbs weak from hunger and atrophied from bondage sought the last vestiges of my strength. The tendrils had left me to my own devices. Sea water poured down my gullet, and I could not explain the euphoria as vile, salty water hit my tongue. It tasted like manna, my friend. So much more than this… swill!”
He dashes the dredges of his mug to the ground in a fit. Signs of mania touch his eyes. The intensity of his switch regarding his drink catches you off guard. You shy away from the monkey whose mental acuity you finally start to question. Estimations of the amount of alcohol this drunkard has consumed go through your mind and finally your instincts begin to yell at you. You want to leave. You gaze to the door, through the throng of bodies which you finally begin to observe closer. They look… off.
They laugh and cheer and sing, as they have been the entire evening. The only activity that you’ve heard the entire evening. Or.. had you. The words were warbled, if they were even words. The sounds were muffled as if spoken through walls. And their garb sticks to their forms. The fabrics and cloth are drenched with water. It pours off of every one. Puddles, endless puddles, smatter the floor, staining the wood dark. And their skin, it sits wrinkled upon their bones. You recall skin like that, from your many times leaving the bath. Your heart rate spikes, the oddities pile upon one another. You wish to run, but the exit lies past the throng of sailors.
Their eyes. Dark pupils. No matter the orientation of their heads, their eyes look towards you. Each and everyone. No matter the head, species, or position. Dozens of men stare your way. No, at you. Just you.
You shutter. They stare at you, eyes everywhere. They see you, all of you. Down to your very core.
“What’s wrong, friend?” The Vanara asks. The tone remains light, cordial, and benign. But stark sober. Not one slurred syllable. You cannot answer. Hostile eyes continue to stare at you. “What has made you so… frightened?”
You slowly turn, locked to each set of eyes as you return to looking at the monkey upon the bar. His are the only ocular organs that did not watch you. That fact only made you more afraid. His back was ramrod straight. He did not slouch upon the surface before him. You tried to answer, but all that came out of your throat were choked noises and stutters. You still felt the eyes. All of your willpower fought the temptation to turn back to the crowd.
“You can not leave yet, I haven’t finished my tale. Sit.”
Your limbs move without delay as you sit upon your stool once more. Your lungs quake as shallow breaths become all you can manage. The Vanara continues with no pretense. As if the threatening aura of the situation is to be expected. But then you realize, he is part of its source.
“I breached the surface. Light was again able to hit my eyes. The midday sun shone down on me, and I felt the shore near my feet. But none of it, not a single stimulus moved me. No heat from fire, no drink nor nourishment, not the breeze upon my face and fur could move me.”
“I felt nothing, saw nothing, experienced nothing! Save two things, my friend. The sapping chill of that water. And the sensation of eyes. Many eyes. Eyes without form. Or face. Or visage. But not without name. I knew their names, each and every one. I knew their manner of speech and shape. For they were near and dear to me. They traveled with me many leagues and journeys. Many voyages and travels. Many ports and harbors across the sea.”
You feel the anger in his words. They wash over you like waves. Untapped hostility freezes you. Breathing is still a laborious act..
“Do you know who they were, friend? I’m sure you could guess.”
You can, you feel them now. Dozens and dozens of eyes. You only nod, once. The only movement you feel capable of. The straight-backed monkey nods back.
“They never leave me. They never grant me any respite. They never cease in reminding me of what I offered to the Lady. Do you remember? From my story? Do you remember? I remember, for I shall never forget.”
“‘Every last life tied to this damnable ship….’” He accents every word. Stretches grow between each in the line. The sentence pounds against your skull. Fear clamps down your desire to run again. “I could not understand what I was granted freedom for, nor could I understand why I had been spared being dragged to the depths with the rest of them. Until I played through that voyage in my mind, over and over again. Every miscalculated heading, every ration that turned spoiled, every misdirected breeze and crosswind. All of which pushed us from our course and towards that region, that Calm. And I remembered, I finally remembered what had first plagued us so. It was not the Lady, nor was it our hunger or thirst, nor was it the strange winds. Plagued from the outset were we. By our… benefactors. Our masters.”
The Vanara stands, the muffled singing halts. Silence meets your ears for the first time since you stepped into the tavern. The still air fills you with even greater dread. No lungs stir, no scrapes from stools and chairs, no pounding against table or booth. You refuse to turn and check what the patrons are doing. You already know.
You grasp to your cup, empty as it is, as your lone lifeline. The insides are caked with black liquid, the strong scent was replaced with salt and stale sea air. The bartop lies soaked in condensation from what you do not know. Rational thoughts lie outside your control. You curse ever stepping into this bar, ever beginning to hear this story, ever engaging with this slob. His outfit glints in the corner of your eyes. You notice as where once cloth rested in tatters and disarray now seems mended itself before your eyes, holes have been patched away as to even claim that they weren’t visible prior. A waistcoat now rests upon his broad shoulders, even his boots and buckles shine with a splendor so counter to his earlier appearance.
He takes a step towards you. He leans over and presses a hand upon the bartop. Moisture runs off his fur, much alike the ghouls behind you. The liquid begins wicking up your sleeve. You shiver from the touch of cold. The monkey sinks his head to your ear. Where alcohol was on his breath is now the stench of rotted fish. Your stomach clenches further, compactinging into an even smaller size. The acrid feeling of bile rising in your esophagus draws your attention away as you attempt not to wretch.
Eloquent words wave across your ear. Sharp tongue with sharper tone hones its edge against your mind.
“Be you slave or master, bound to the sea are men like you and me. Our trade counts for less otherwise. Yet is it not the slave that bears the brunt of the toil and labor? Yet is it not the moguls and tycoons prowling about their ivory towers who shuffle the cards? Cards from decks stacked in their favors? Yet is it not the sailor who bets their bodies upon the ocean surf while corpulent, greedy businessmen bed in silk and safety?”
“Yet is it not we who died while you remained dry?”
Lalulasa Virica. Captain of the Amber Star and your employee was presumed lost at sea with the entirety of the crew and cargo. Yet here he is. There was no retreating from those eyes, all their eyes. The frigid water continues to drip off of each of their bodies. Sloshing footsteps, dozens of boot falls, hunted you. You feel the separation of you and them fizzle away. Ocean musk grows stronger and stronger, making your head swim.
“Seems It is you who is without drink now. Let me return your generosity, friend.”
Excuses flash across your mind, reasons for your actions. Justifications for your position. And one by one you feel them get swallowed up the ever restricting sounds of encroaching sailors and drowned men. You are struck with the fear that they saw even those, the innermost intimate thoughts of your mind. And that there are no words that would placate these corpses. They want you. You try to shut them out by shutting your eyes.
The tavern vanished, the light vanished, the world vanished.
But in the dark were the eyes, and they saw you….
-----
It was a pleasant night at Tom’s Brackish Tavern. Sailors celebrated the culmination of their voyages, filling the place to the brim. Euphoric to finally set upon dry land and drown themselves willingly with ale. Each and every one was regaling a tale of their passage across the ocean, a fine sailing and were ready to piss away their earnings ere tomorrow.
Not one thing was out of place and no one paid attention to the coming and goings of others. The only thing that was cause for any minor concern was two empty seats at the far end of the bar. Were any of the inebriated seamen of sober enough mind to pay attention, they would have questioned the way that those stools remained empty despite the number of celebrating mariners. But no one did.
And no one wondered why there were empty mugs of ale placed before them.
