Follow the light

I still remember that terrifying night...that stuttering hum under my feet, the waves quite as calm as the ocean itself afraid to disturb this monstrosity. I remember the noise of the stars whose light went out before thousands of shining eyes, and the moon that fled for fear of the little sun that rose before me. The screeching metal, the engine whining and hissing its last puff of smoke, an unholy howl driving away the stinging wind whipping my cheeks.  

The days that followed were a blur. Woke up on the beach  north  of the chagua, the ship crashed and torn to pieces, with a circle of curious farmers around me.  I found myself in the tavern, drinking whiskey and suffering from a headache, ignoring the incessant noise of the sailors and fishermen who told me so many stories about how I had managed to destroy dear Etna in the  night. A drunk, an idiot, a failure. That is all I have been to them and all I will be. Five drinks later, I let the heat in my stomach turn to fire on my tongue; The whole city soon learned how he had faced a devil in the sea, bathed in his breath, faced his roar, and survived. 

 A poorly made joke hat showed up on my doorstep the next day. Today I feed my ship in the journey of the daughter of the Daughter of Etna, many years later. A lonely journey, with no one  to accompany him. No, the inhabitants prefer to look inside, of course, away from the sleeping waters. I  feel it in their looks, in the way they hide their whispers behind the wrong hands, in their contorted cheeks  with mocking smiles every time I pass: they think I'm crazy. This obsession,  mapping,  research, is not only for me, no, it is also for them, even if it makes me nervous. The terrible beast will frighten them as it has frightened me, haunt their dreams and nightmares, haunt their shadows in their homes, drive them mad… 

But not me. I'm not crazy, I'm doing this for them. 

 One last check before leaving, I decided to do it quickly. Food stores full of dried fruit, meat and seafood; fishing gear, bait and tackle stored in several tackle boxes; a change of clothes and blankets piled to the ceiling in the narrow room below deck; a large stock of weapons hidden under the floor or otherwise mounted on the walls. I thought I would be far, far away, and  for a short while, long enough to find the beast and, in an ideal world, long enough to kill it. I will not return without an apology. 

The engine burns as we slowly pull away from the harbor. I find myself back, staring longingly at the empty city, shrouded in morning mist, with only a few dim lights to show that it's still there. The lighthouse is no more than a mere candle on the horizon, and I want its light to succeed in my search before the light is extinguished. I move, past the usual fishermen, past other ships that sail in waters considered safer than where my travels  take me, towards the wall of fog that I sailed in my youth. Overturned hulls and the hulls of other ships litter a city of fairy chimneys, and I wonder sadly if they have also been destroyed by the creature. 

I can't get over the thought of sailors lost, torn apart or otherwise eaten, drowned and fighting for their precious breath. I pass the real cemetery in silence, my only offer is the promise of revenge. It is because of my lack of insight that I hear whispers on the winds of what I can  guess are long gone souls, whispers of approval and obedience. Blessings of safe travels and good luck. Even when the fog clears, there's nothing to see for miles around, just a blue-grey sky lifted by shimmering waves. The hours pass, punctuated by the lonely clouds that drift overhead. I continue my way until the hair on the back of my neck stands up and my lungs tighten with the unbearable feeling of seeing. Here I weigh the anchor and wait impatiently for the beast to fold its head.  

I cast a line into the cold water and wait. Spend hours with an old weathered  book and wait. 

Looking at the seas through my bronze glass and waiting. 

And wait. 

 And wait.  

I watch the sun rise above my head to make its bed in the western waters. As the indigo hues of dusk settle in and the stars mark the night, I sigh deeply. No sign today, I think, and I have a light meal on deck. In the late evening, I am lulled to sleep by the soothing waves and the occasional sound of the wind through the cabin windows. 

 Another day unfolds in the same way. Then another, and another. The nights become colder, darker, as I am haunted by visions of the attack that started it all. The full moon reminds me a lot of the nebulous eye moving towards me. I heard the crack of the hull  and suddenly  the sound of teeth hitting the steel as if it were  a scab. Floating shapes in the distance and a song on the wind bring to mind images of mermaids and newts beckoning me to join them in the darkest depths. And if it is not the half-men who mock me, it is a terrible snake coiled around me, ready to swallow me whole. I find myself every night waiting  for death to take me away. 

It's frustrating, waiting. An endless wait. Walking the bridge, casting  lines, reading the same chapter and waiting. No sign of the creature I seek, but a feeling; the terror that grips my bones like a vice; afraid that his claws would clutch at my ribcage.  In the morning, as always, I wait for  the fishing line to be pulled in. Another trout, perhaps, or a char. I dream of fresh fish on the grill instead of the dried meat I had in storage, hearty dishes served in the cold night in the tavern. I dream of cheeks warmed by joy and meanness, throat irritated by screams, laughter and good  arguments. I dream of the time I was before I was chased away by the townspeople. Paved paths and cabins built of logs and stones; fields of  sheep and goats suffocating traffic on every road imaginable; wooden carts and makeshift rickshaws at a lively Saturday market; competition with no reward other than bragging rights for who could bring in the biggest fish. It was quaint, comfortable and family friendly. 

And God, I miss him. 

The little bell on the end of my rod rings once, twice, before turning into an endless chant as the line is added. I rise from my seat to grab the rod, clutching it at my hip as I lift, push, laugh, push, until a large shadow approaches the surface. It's not the beast I'm looking for, but it's a worthwhile catch. He comes out of the water when I see something strange: a bright blue spot on his belly. An icy chill runs down my spine. In my hesitation, I lost it and the fish swam too deep before I could retrieve it. I have no choice but to cut the line before I lose the entire spool.  I no longer cast my line. Instead, I curl up in bed and sleep. It's the best I can do to try to melt the ice that has built up in my veins.  

The sun is setting when I wake up again. I clamber across the bridge, dry-mouthed and disoriented, to watch streaks of clouds roll overhead. Cottons dyed in shades of orange, pink and purple - a bouquet scattered by the wind. A slight noise shakes the boat, a piercing scream is heard around me, and suddenly the water rises. A whale three times the size of the daughter of Etna came within a few meters of me and almost knocked me  overboard when the next wave crashed into my ship. Clinging to the rails, I watch as  another whale glides to the surface next to me, spraying me with a light mist as it blows water into the air. There is a third, a fourth, a fifth, shadows that float beneath the surface and send ripples around me. In a swirl of flounder and silver, a number of fish circle the boat,  disturbed by all the activity. I am amazed by the beauty and impossibility of such a spectacle. To be in the middle of the ocean coming to life as creatures large and small move together seems a privilege that few people can enjoy.  

I laugh. It is the laughter of a madman, deep, internal and whistling. It's a laugh that, in the  end, turns into tears. Maybe I was stupid after all. Perhaps after weeks at sea without much experience, in the gaze of a moonless night, my little one accepted something as sweet as the harmony of a whale, as banal as a school of blue-bellied fish, for something of evil Maybe the monsters only existed  in my mind, woven of shadow and loneliness. Perhaps this venture was doomed to failure. I wonder what I'm doing  here,  where no one asked me to be. What's the point? Even if there's a legendary sea monster  here, what chance do I, a single man with a half-decent fishing boat, have against a giant? How could I  prove I killed him? This journey is meant only for  myself, a stopover to avoid recognition of my loss of reason. I skip the other stages of pain and go straight to acceptance. It's the only good thing I can do to save this trip. 

I watch the whales disappear, the last sound of their song fading from my ears, and I decide I've seen enough to last a lifetime. The anchor is raised, the weight of  self-imposed turmoil takes its place at the bottom of the sea, after all. I sail through the night, stopping only in front of the wall of fog to sleep and drive away the darkness, then return home. The whispers I hear when I pass  the yard are just the tricks of the sea air. "Come back," they say. "You were right," they complained. Despite the temptations to listen to them, I see them  as nothing more than that: temptations. The demons on my shoulder lead me astray. The angels are silent today, I think; I will make my own decisions for them. 

The sun sleeps as I find myself in familiar waters, the lighthouse basin stretching out over the ocean as I've seen many times, our own personal North Star pointing home. I noticed that as I left, another wave of fog enveloped the city. The few dim lights that shine fill me with peace, knowing that I will soon be among my people. I'll have my favorite stew for dinner, share a pint with friends and rivals, maybe indulge in some fresh  bread in the morning. I will put up with their funny jokes and  the fact that no beast got me today. I feel at home and not in a haunted crypt. I will not be expelled. A madman Only 

My peace is disturbed only when he looks at me. The waters stagnate. There are no more waves, even the undulations of my boat die out. The stars are turned to  dust before the fast-approaching lighthouse, whose turned light has stopped. It doesn't point anywhere - no, it points to me - because it doubles in size. Logically, I should see the coast, the city, the port, but instead the fog thickens in the shape of a half dome. One by one, new lights turn on. Too much, too big, too cold; its appearance does not give warmth. 

The earth itself trembles. The warmth leaves me as a familiar shade of blue  appears in the corner of my eye. Then another one. And another one. The blue orbs below the surface of the water surround me, watching me, waiting... 

I looked at the fog that rises, rises, rises, the lighthouse rises much higher than it should. It bends and tilts, pokes into the sky above like an antenna. He fixed on me, and as his inhuman light focused on me, a hole opened. I heard a rush of water filling the hollow of the caverns, the creak of metal bending around me, and an unholy moan that shook my  soul.  

Then I didn't hear anything.

By Taun17